With an eye on redemption, in a world where pork futures run parallel to mental progressions experienced by maidens nearing their last of six months in Hell. In a time when latent discovery is encapsulated by sheaths of gelatinous gluttony and greed, there stands a man, a hero.
The equator yields on, concerned solely with its pre-programmed rationale. The hero is but a fixture in this centrality. He asks to live but the life of a mere mortal boy, to go unnoticed when he slinks through a farmer’s market, head down, bill folded over to conceal the eyes. Yet attention finds his shadow, ensnaring him when all he wanted was isolation, two plums, a banana and a pear.
Drawn in to frays, by lawmen, heretics and scoundrels alike. He refutes their pleas, pleading he’s not the man for which they need. Yet, despite a yearning for quiet and the affinity toward isolated and internal mingling alone, he always finds himself standing in the center of melee’s and apocalypse alike, seemingly appearing the moment after that first pause, that first sigh.
Forks of tune spill tongues of proxy. The iconic status, built by peers, all of whom he cares not for, is splattered everywhere. His likeness decorates posters, billboards, advertisements, apparel and more. His tales spur mismanaged timelines told by childhood idolaters, in homes, train platforms, parks, playgrounds, fetes and fairs. Some offer his name in prayer. Some bleed their stories, of personal turmoil and deadliest of fears, seeking answers and advice, but mainly its intervention for which they hope he’ll care enough to spare. Men, young, grown and old, wish to be him, live his days, see the world through his rueful eyes. Governments seek his genes, hoping to construct clones, while women offer their every thing, just praying to be held.
But there are the detractors. The moguls of industry, the captains of piracy wish he’d fade from view, cease interfering with the things they do. Those perpetrators of injustices, those villains amongst, all likely wish his heart stop beating, to awake to find their plots successful, to find this hero dead. Then there are the drunks, with their nighttime courage and inflated sense of musculature, inebriated to the hilt, watching him for hours, from barroom windows and speakeasy doors, as he enjoys an evening breeze comfortably positioned on his porch. With each sip of whisky, with every subsequent ounce of beer, their courage grows much stronger, soon, without failure; someone will cross the road and approach his door, to challenge his manhood and honor then and there. He ignores them at first, continuing whatever chapter presently engages his reading stare. Yet they never stop their pursuit, they harass and badger, intent to gain some privileged opinions through their fearless dares. At which point however, the hero, without a word spoken, gets up from his chair, turns toward the door and goes in there, never once acknowledging the drunkard hell-bent for dramatic fisticuffs and flare. He lets them get away, for he cares not to kill, not for need, most certainly not for opportunities sake. He allows the men their arm-raising moments. He gives them their story, how the great hero backed down from their stare. The tales he hears change daily. Some tell it like it actually went down; some apologize at a later time, for acting idiotic and thank him for not engaging. Yet most of the hearsay that ensues involves “our big hero can’t defend himself, gets humiliated by some drunken fink.” The media plays these songs, with fervor and frenzy. The hero only hopes they’ll move the story on without him, forgetting he was ever there.
Ionic retrograde
Formulaically splayed
Con-man in a gorilla suit
March of hands in branded pursuit
A carrier with message to tell
A sword duel that goes to well
A carnival, a masquerade
The carnivorous, the curmudgeon too
Shellac vanguard’s embossed view
Lowbrow Tsetse traps
Bounded deities and murky thugs
Radioactive backbeats
Confetti bombs and Uzi-slugs
Picayune dealers plane
Abolition gains it’s range
Hovers down from starlight nape
Coveting apolstry in single stance
Cheyenne eclipse atop Montanan sky
Looking forward for a day to die
When will the flood swallow?
When will the swallow flood?
Sawmills in perspiration
Gloved storks deliver amazement
To a town of monarch flies
Bulging with disease in side
Catastrophe, now that, I know is a job for me
Strains begin to overtake
High-low games often played
By sharks and snots, bystanders and routinely placed passersby
Slowly Freudian stigmas slicker the floor
Soon perforations split
And so the effort amounts to this
Climbing trellis in pursuit
Up the vines and down a chimney
Chasing vermin fast and slippy
Covering flesh in blackened soot
Revealing there’s still a chapter left
In this irritating mystery
Alcatraz armored round
Moat to cross I soon found
Invasive, or so they say
But really, what other attitude could be expected
Spheres collected with gargoyles should have stood
Dripping wet clothes to skin
Alga mask from cheek to chin
Into the penitentiary I slunk
No need to break a window
For the door ajar gained me entry
Sliding down fireman’s pole I saw
An entity in black slide fast and far
Past the iron sentry and the middlemen a gambling
Across the room stands the sundry
Where some at play with dollars spread
Showing what illegitimacy begets
So I stood there momentarily
In contemplation, without company
I sat alone and rued the whirr, the drone
Yet I knew I’d be back to peace
As soon as this assembly drowned
And with that I adjusted my neck
Firmly in stance I gained the attention of
The iron-man, the sentry guarding this place from man
No challenge to me though
As one quick shove transferred him into
The pit the fireman’s pole takes him to
Arms blazing every which way now
Shielding up around my frame
With each deflection
Another fell
Their fate designed
By their own spell
And to the front I easily made
Where stood the mastermind of this melee
I walked slowly towards his desk
When he pulled two girls near him there
Threatening to kill them both
Letting them live if I go
I told him I was not afraid of what evil he might make
For his soul would be the spoiler
And his actions would be judged sooner than later
Pistols ranged with both hands
Blondie’s temple and Auburns cheek
They were scared; they were weak
I didn’t care what came next
I didn’t hesitate
I shot a blast of hell into him
Eviscerating his flesh to dust,
His guns fell to the floor in clumps of rust
The girls, naked and in tears
Ran their forms out the room and down the stairs
Mission completed,
So home I would go
Shoebox variety
Quizmaster groping
Pin-ups still addressed
Each question they answered to their best
Content to keep the sum amassed
The youngest of the day
Decided to take the money
The surprised look upon the Gamesman’s face
Tells me this part was not rehearsed
Oh, how the nuances make the worth
With nothing left to do
The sphinx’s riddle must be replaced
Leaving only dollar signs to stutter the set drapes
Spinner
Caster of molds
Burst upon
A forge of old
Cameraman and microphone
Taping the sounds of ghouls
Haunted castle without remorse
Cold walls and dampened songs
Told about the history
Of the families that once enchanted these
Barley malt
Stirring wheat
Butter fried
Battered fish
An arena filled with pots and pans
Animated
Dirty little rhymes
Up late
Cartoons awful
Ridged nostrils oozing vile
Cassiopeia
Gemini
Sagittarius
Bow
In the stars
I’ve often known
Perhaps the quiet
Takes some adjusting to
Sigh-
Door awakes
Glass I drop and it brakes
Commissioner stands
With blood on hand
But of course, it seems to be that
Isolations through.
This piece is a bit experimental. I preplanned that I wouldn't have any plans. I said I would write until I got done. I wouldn't even read it until after I finished, and post it regardless of what I thought. Anyhow it's got a bunch of things going on in here, quick spurts, extended prose, character sketching, responsibility vs wanting. I find it interesting that a free write session stayed aligned throughout,for the most part anyway.
